Avatar: The Forest for the Trees
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: "Here's the dirty truth about you, Chacon. There's more blood on your hands then you care to admit. You want to stand and be counted? Then do something. Act. Don't speak."


**The Forest for the Trees**

Exiting the briefing held by the colonel, there was one word that lingered in Trudy's mind – "dispersal."

She knew what dispersal meant. She'd seen dispersal on the news back on Earth, as police dispersed rioters. People crying out for food, for clean water, for the ability to breathe non-polluted air. When she'd been stationed in Nigeria, she'd carried out "dispersal" herself. When rebels had attacked the country's oilfields, she and her unit had dropped cluster bombs from the air, in order to secure the assets that allowed the gears of 22nd century civilization to keep turning. This, however, wasn't dispersal. Within the next half hour, a fleet of aircraft would take off from Hell's Gate, head to the Omaticaya hometree, and "disperse" the na'vi living there. Trudy had seen dispersal. She'd helped enforce dispersal. This however, wasn't dispersal beyond euphemism. This was attacking. This was "stealing shit." This was any number of unpleasant words used to describe unpleasant things, and of all those words, "dispersal" didn't begin to cover it.

And yet here she was. Walking down the hallways of Hell's Gate in her flight suit. Trying to ignore just how happy so many of the mercs were at being part of the upcoming operation. That after years of dealing with continuous attacks by the natives, after years of being forced to fight with one hand behind their back, the RDA could finally let loose and deal with the blue monkeys, to use one of the less objectionable terms. At first, she'd be able to smile, and respond half-heartedly to the bravado. Five minutes after that, she couldn't summon the willpower. Problem was, she thought, as she leant against one of the walls, she couldn't summon the willpower to do much else.

"Chacon?"

Not even smile. Though even if the looming prospect of "dispersal" wasn't weighing down on her like a tonne of ubobtanium, she wouldn't have smiled anyway.

"Wainfleet."

People like her gunner didn't deserve that.

"Yeah?" He gave her a small shove. "What's up with you?"

God's sake, did he have to look so happy, she wondered? Her mother had once told her that good people did bad things, and bad people did bad things, but the difference was that good people felt bad for doing the bad things. Growing up in the slums of Los Angeles, it didn't take her long to figure out that the world was much greyer than that – greyer than the perpetual cloud of smog that hung over the city. But looking at Wainfleet now, the saying came back to her. And no prizes for guessing what kind of person he was by that analogy.

_So, what? I'm good then? _She forced a smile. "Fine," she murmured.

"Right, sure. _Fine_." He gave her a look, like a rancher inspecting a mule. "You've lost something Chacon. Can't quite put a finger on it."

"Is it balls, Wainfleet? Because you know I never had them, right?"

"Nah, it's like…fire, y'know? Pizaz?"

This time, she did smile – it was the only thing that was able to stop her from punching him. "You hitting on me Wainfleet?"

"I dunno Chacon, scuttlebutt is that you're already taken." He looked aside, clicking his fingers. "What's is name again? Egghead you've been with, running cargo for…Ned…Nell…Nelly…"

"Nelly and Nell are the same name your jackass."

He looked back at her – she'd been ready to punch him, now he looked ready to punch her. After a second, his arm suddenly extended, and to her shame, she flinched.

_Have I gone soft?_

Though it wasn't a punch. It was instead a pat on her shoulder with a hand that was far too heavy.

_Fuck, I have gone soft._

"Keep your head in the game Chacon," he said. "When the shit hits the fan, I don't want to be the one screwing it on."

She took his hand, and yanked it off her shoulder. "You know the game, Lyle. I fly, you shoot."

His eyes narrowed. "Just make sure you remember it."

She kept leaning against the wall as he headed down the hallway, along with the other mercs. Army, Marines, Navy, Air Force – men and women taken from militaries all over the world who'd been lured to this world to shoot shit up. Or get a paycheck. One silver lining was that her bank account wasn't dependent on how many flights she took, though there was a time lag of over four years for it to be sent back home to mother. The woman who was living in some shithole within a shithole, who had trouble moving and breathing. Not asking exactly what her daughter was doing over a million miles from home, only caring that the money kept coming.

Or so she told herself. Maria Chacon was smart. Trudy had no doubt that she had some inkling as to what her daughter was up to. But when you had a lack of food, water, and the ability to breathe, people would take whatever they could just to survive another day, in her experience. Regardless of the cost.

_So, am I still a good person? _She wondered, remembering Ma's old lessons. _Am I the good person who's about to do a bad thing? Like, really bad? The type of bad that the bearded guy on the cross might not forgive me for?_

She grit her teeth, and still refused to move. The minutes were ticking down to the inevitable. Something that had arguably been inevitable the moment humans landed on Pandora in the first place. She was only a corporal, but even if her rank was higher, she knew there was no dissuading Quaritch. He'd had a chip on his shoulder for the same amount of time as he'd had his scar. And Selfridge? He was less gung ho, but he was an administrator. RDA wanted unobtanium, investors wanted growth, and capitalism continued to function. Grace couldn't do anything, now that the Avatar Program was being shut down. Which only left…

_Oh hell._

She didn't want to do it. She really, _really _didn't want to do it. Seeing Grace, Jake…Norm, again, would be almost preferable. She could manage to see the hurt in their eyes again as they looked upon her via guilt of association, if it meant escaping a meeting with _her_. But then, what could they do? Grace had tried and failed to forge a peace with the na'vi for years, though not for lack of the RDA screwing things up all the time. Jake? He'd done more in three months than three years, but now they didn't even have three hours to turn this around? And Norm? Christ, she didn't want to think about Norm now. He might have the least amount of clout, but in a way, he had the most power. The way he'd looked at her after being dragged back to Hell's Gate. Like Jesus might have at Judas, as her mother would say…

_Fuck this shit._

She looked at her watch – 24 minutes. That was how long she had to turn this around.

And if she failed, dispersal.

* * *

Captain Hale's door was open.

Like, technically it was closed, but it wasn't locked. Trudy didn't know why. She wasn't complaining either. Though, entering the door to the lion's den, she kind of wished it _was _locked. That way, she wouldn't have to go through all this and could tell herself that "it's okay, you tried, now get on with the job."

"Captain?"

But it was open, and Captain Hale was there. Seated at her desk, typing at a computer. Not even acknowledging her existence.

"Ma'am?" Trudy asked.

Hale said nothing. She just sat there and continued to type.

"Listen, ma'am, I'm kind of in a rush right now and-"

"Aren't you meant to be on the flightline?" Hale murmured.

"Um, yeah," Trudy said. "About that…"

Hale sighed, though still didn't look away from the computer screen. "Well, get on with it Chacon."

Trudy grimaced. "It's so nice to see you too."

She walked in, closed the door, and took a seat opposite Hale. The office was bereft of almost any amenities bar displays of Hale's war records. Certificates. Victoria Cross. Order of Merit. Trudy knew that Hale was former British Navy, though centuries on from whence Britannia ruled the waves, they spent most of their time trying to maintain Fortress Albion. The world was burning, the people was starving, but some countries were faring better than others, and Hale's among them. On planet Earth, it was every country for itself, and within those countries, every man and woman for themselves as well. Trudy figured it was why the RDA had so much clout. It kept the lights on, and as long as it did that, Earth's governments would look the other way.

But that was in a different star system. Hale was here, typing. Doing…whatever the hell a captain did these days when Quaritch ran the show. Waiting for Hale to say anything and not getting any word, Trudy picked up the one object off the desk that wasn't military based.

"You ever finish this?" she asked, shaking the Rubik's cube.

Hale pushed the monitor aside and glared at her.

"Guess not." She put it back down. "Truth be told, it was never my thing. VR, that was where it was at."

"What do you want, Chacon?"

Trudy decided not to bullshit anymore, so she came clean. "I need you to stop Quaritch."

Hale stared at her.

"Um, I know it's not exactly being sounded on the intercom, but you _are _aware that we're about to attack the Omaticaya hometree, right?"

Hale remained silent.

"_Right_?"

Hale leant back in her chair, folding her fingers together. "Omaticaya. Thought it was Tipani."

"Yeah, they're separate tribes."

"Well, aren't you the little anthropologist?"

"Well, no, it's xeno-anthropologist, and I'm not, Norm is…well, more of a xeno-linguist and…" She bit her tongue, trying to keep Norm out of her mind and the thought of his tongue and hers doing certain things. "Point is, this is a bad move. You know it, I know it, and-"

"Do I know it?" Hale asked.

Trudy really, really, _really _wanted to punch her right now. After Wainfleet, her addiction to punching assholes had become terminal. "Hale, come on. This is wrong."

"Course it's wrong. I still do my job. As you did, not too long ago."

Trudy frowned. "That was different."

"Really? How so?"

Trudy didn't say anything.

"No answer? Of course." Hale leant forward. "Here's the dirty truth about you, Chacon. There's more blood on your hands then you care to admit. And while you're all worked up over one tree, it's really another type you're pissed off about." She smirked. "Am I wrong?"

_Fuck you, _Trudy thought.

"Well?"

_Fuck you and die._

"Didn't think so."

Trudy didn't want to punch her now. She wanted to kick herself instead.

She'd been on Pandora for a few years. Before Quaritch had arrived, back when Commander Karl Falco was running the show. In hindsight, if Quaritch was a wolf (silent, patient, striking when was necessary), Falco was the feral dog – biting and tearing at any point he smelt blood. At the time, the Tipani had been the big dogs, or rather, big cats, to use the vernacular, what with their tails and teeth. Hale had been one of his fellow commanders. Hale had sent her to attack a na'vi tree – the same type of tree that the RDA bulldozers had just destroyed, the one that had got Jake to lose his shit, and by extension, Quaritch. She'd come, the na'vi had attacked, fighting off the gunships with a fury and determination that SecOps hadn't expected. She'd got her bird back to base, and had found Hale waiting for her. The woman had given her a silent acknowledgement, and then got straight back to the great game. Seizing territory, deploying forces, that kind of stuff.

"Chacon."

And here they were. Years later. Falco was gone. Hale had been relegated to a desk job. Quaritch was in charge. And the same thing was going to happen.

"Chacon, if you don't have anything to say, I suggest you get moving."

Trudy looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes. She still had time. But she didn't have the words.

"Hale, come on," she murmured. "That was then. This was now."

"Really? And what's changed?" She sighed, and pulled a flask out from under her desk. "We never got why the na'vi wanted to defend that tree so much. But if Augustine is right, if it's a site of downloaded memories…" She trailed off, taking a swig of a liquid that Trudy doubted was allowed at this time of day. "You ever heard of the Library of Alexandria Chacon?"

"Course I have. Idiots burnt it. And Quaritch is being an idiot now."

"Says the idiot who didn't see this coming."

Trudy stared at Hale.

"Chacon, you were under my command years ago. You saw what happened. And two years ago, you flew Ryder around everywhere – the valet of the Grim Reaper doing Falco's bidding."

"That was-"

"And now, after three months of playing courier for the eggheads, you forget, 'hey, SecOps has guns. Guns are used. Guns are used on aliens who have bows and want to kill us.'" She put the flask back under her desk. "You know your problem Chacon? You only saw the trees. Never the forest."

Trudy said nothing. She just sat there. Letting the words wash over her. Crush her. Drown her.

She wished Hale would yell at her. That way, she could yell back. Show some righteous indignation. But nothing happened. Hale just spoke in sentences. Blunt, horrible sentences that cut through her flesh like one of the arrows she mentioned. Only of course, arrows couldn't cut through steel. Even if the Omaticaya drove off Quaritch's force, he would come back. If this was a war, an invasion, then it was one where one side had held the upper hand since day one, despite isolated na'vi victories. And within the next fifteen, no, _fourteen _minutes, the finger would go on the trigger, and stay there until it was pressed.

"Hale, come on," she murmured. "You've still got some clout. You could, I dunno, try countermanding Quaritch."

Hale looked at her. Sympathetic or amused, it was hard to say.

"Christ Hale, say something."

She sighed. "Chacon, Quaritch is doing its job. Selfridge is doing his job. Every merc, scientist, and miner here are doing their jobs, because it's the only thing any of us _can _do."

"You think when the hometree is destroyed the na'vi are going to give a shit about any of that?"

"Probably not. But if we don't do our jobs, and dear Mama Chacon stops getting payment for her meds, you think she's going to be happy that her daughter put aliens over her own survival? Over her own species?"

Trudy didn't say anything. Because despite all her mother's preaching, she knew the truth. It was far easier to be virtuous when you weren't hungry.

"Didn't think so," Hale said. She pulled the monitor back in front of her and started typing. And Trudy knew that the conversation was over.

"Ma'am," she murmured, getting to her feet. Even in spite of what was about to happen, no reason not to be polite, she figured. She headed for the door.

"Chacon."

And stopped, looking back at Hale. Who'd got to her feet and was looking at her with a funny look.

"You want to stand and be counted?" Hale asked. "Then do something. Act. Don't speak."

Trudy grunted. "Says the desk jockey," she said, before exiting Hale's office and slamming the door shut.

* * *

The attack, the "dispersal," had turned out to be as horrible as she'd imagined it would be.

The gunships had arrived. Per Quaritch's orders, they'd lobbed gas cannisters first. Even from here, Trudy could see the Omaticaya running out. Screaming. Choking. Mothers. Children. Fathers. The ones on the ground below were firing arrows at them, but were accomplishing nothing. It was like the attack on that memory tree, all those years ago. Worse, even, because the Omaticaya had no idea how to fight their enemy. Having spent her youth in LA's slums, and getting into more than a handful of brawls, Trudy knew the value of a fair fight. And also the value of staying alive. Hence, she'd fired the gas cannisters. Hence, she kept glancing upward for any sign of banshee riders. Some clans had figured out how to take down RDA gunships. There was a chance that the Omaticaya might have as well. And if they had, then she was a sitting duck. A duck protected by reinforced glass, but a duck nonetheless.

She dared hope, as the arrows continued to impact against her ship, that Quaritch would call it off. The gas hadn't done its job. It had got the na'vi out of the tree, but too many of them were standing their ground. Against the alien invaders, they were holding onto their land, like any human might to aliens who'd come to take their home as well. She closed her eyes, and wondered if her mother was right. About God, about Jesus, about all that crap. Wondering if they existed, whether they'd show mercy. And for whom?

"Fire," came Quaritch's order over the radio.

No mercy came. The order was given. The gunships began to fire their missiles, impacting the tree like…like something that she couldn't even find an analogy for. She'd never seen a tree this big. And even on Pandora, she'd never been against a foe so outmatched. And she'd never been in a place where everything had felt so…_wrong_.

Lyle was letting out some asinine exclamations. The radio chatter was alive with them. People having too much fun with the horror going on before them. A horror that, she knew now, had always been the end result of this. Maybe not from day one, but certainly by the time she'd turned up on this moon. The RDA had a mine by Hell's Gate. By tomorrow, they'd be in the process of setting up a second. How long until a third? A fourth? A fifth?

She didn't know. And the incendiary missiles provided no answers. The arrows had stopped coming. The na'vi were fleeing. The sound of the fire, of the explosions, of the rotor blades cut out any sound of screaming. But she knew what was going on down there. Pain. Terror. Despair. Maybe even confusion. The feeling that any person of any species would feel when they saw their world burn around them. A feeling that she could feel in her stomach. Her chest. Her heart. Even her hand, hovering above the firing trigger of her bird. If God had spoken, if she was one of His angels, then her stone had yet to be cast. And through it all, Hale's words…

_You want to stand and be counted. Then do something. Act. Don't speak._

She had acted. She'd done things. She hadn't cast the first stone, but she'd been part of the crowd which had done so.

_You know your problem Chacon? You only saw the trees. Never the forest._

She could see a tree burning before her. She could see it falling. And beyond it, the forest. Still standing. For now. But for how much longer?

_Act. Don't speak._

She took a breath, deciding to do both. "Screw this," she whispered.

She drew her Samson out of formation, turning it around.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing?!"

Lyle was telling her something though.

"I didn't sign up for this shit!" she yelled back at him, before heading back to home base.

It was too little, too late. She knew that as soon as she landed, she'd be reprimanded at best, court martialled at worst. She knew that in the grand scheme of things, it meant very little. And that one good deed didn't absolve her of her sins, nor would it bring the Omaticaya hometree back.

But it was something, she told herself.

* * *

_A/N_

_The idea for this came from gameplay of _Pandora Rising_. Now, I'm a bit confused by it. On one hand, it's said to be a lead-in to _Avatar 2_. On the other, if that's the case, why is Trudy there? I'd have thought dying in a ball of fire did a number on one's ability to do, well, anything. Course, it could be the same case of Quaritch coming back for the sequel (why?!), or maybe the game isn't really that narratively-based. But the third option, that it's actually set before the first film (which would account for Trudy being present), does have problems as well, because it raises the question of Trudy apparently being fine with the assault on the 'memory tree,' but drawing the line at the hometree attacked._

_Anyway, drabbled this up._


End file.
